


Scar

by tangerine (arte)



Series: Amnesiac Hannibal Oneshots [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sick Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High fever makes Hannibal think he's fifteen. He wakes up on a boat. There's a man who has a deep scar on his cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Not precisely an amnesia fic but I have a fever and Hannibal should suffer with me.

You feel feverish, throat dry, bones brittle, sinking into the bed. Yet the salty smell of sea is unmistakable, as is the rocking motion under your back. It's not just the fever talking. You're on a boat. 

You think you should be hearing creaking springs and shuffling bodies and always someone with a runny noise. Teachers yelling at no one in particular to pay attention. What you hear is a faint sound of running motors and lapping water. You're not in the orphanage. Somebody has taken you, without your knowledge. Possibly without anyone's knowledge.

You wonder why someone had bothered. You're not worth anything. No one would pay for you.

You try to sit up to better access the situation, swiftly realise your error. Your vision goes white. Scream is perched in your throat, unable to crawl out only because you don't have the energy. You squeeze the bedsheet between your fingers as your side burns, throbbing hot and vicious. Oh, how could you have forgotten. People can feed off of pain. Even with no money and no kin, you're still worth your pain.

( _Anniba, Misha starts crying. You shush her gently, return her to her room where cold and hunger can't touch her. She screams for you, the door buckling. Your body is heavy. You use it to keep it shut._ )

"You're awake," a voice says. 

You twist your head around to see. A single drop of tear trails down your cheek from the movement. You let it fall. Ill concealed weakness only garners insterest. 

"Or not," the man says as he sits on the chair near the bed. American, your brain sluggishly parses the language. How bizzare. Has the man run out of people to kidnap in his own country?

A cool hand descends to your forehead. You want to snap his wrist and run. But where would you go? You don't know how to drive a boat. You don't have a voice to convince someone else to do so.

You endure his touch. It's strangely gentle, far from clinical, tender even. You wonder what the man's game is. If it's only an attempt to make you more uncertain. If it's something more sinister.

"Do you think you can eat something?"

( _Mischa tastes warm and salty on your tongue. She's with you. She'll be safe. You bring her to the garden, distract her with bright colors._ )

You give a feeble nod, just to see what the man would do. To your surprise, the man simply nods and stand up, no taunting, no bargaining. He disappears through the door.

You begin the arduous process of sitting up. You're hypersensitive to every twitch and spasm in your muscle, but the pain is easier to bear as you're braced for it. You curl your hand around your stomach, surprisingly find it to be bandaged. So the man doesn't want you dead yet. You have time. 

"Idiot," the man says, returning in no time. There's steaming bowl in his hands. "I thought you of all people knew not to push yourself too hard."

Hardly a fair assessment, given that you couldn't stay lying down if you wanted to eat. You wordlessly take the offered bowl. Your arms shake but not enough that you need assistance. You sip slowly, carefully. Warmth fills you.

( _When are we going home, Anniba?_ ) 

_Smash_

The bowl makes a clear sound as it falls to the floor and shatters. You make your eyes dart between the sharp pieces glinting on the floor and the man's face, feigning fright. You lower your lashes. You wait.

The man says, "We're on our way to Argentina. It's 3:42 p.m. Your name is Hannibal Lecter, and my name is Will Graham. You better not die because I'm not going anywhere."

It should've sounded threatening. The man knows your name, meaning you were targeted, meaning less chance of escape. He could be telling lies to remind you that he has power over you. For some reason the man's words ground you, make you feel less cold.

You finally lift your head to look at the man properly. The most prominent thing is the scar on his cheek, the black stitches making the pink stand out. It doesn't mar his features so much as enhance the blues in his eyes. They're soft, exhausted, salvia still blooming after being stamped. His hair is unkept, curling everywhere. He looks ill himself, and you find a bandage peaking under the v-neck of his sweater. He doesn't hold himself like a soldier or a gang. He doesn't appear capable of indulging in recreational kidnapping, both physically and mentally. 

"Do you want the painkillers?" the man - Will, his name is Will - asks. He's asking not to withhold but to give. How strange. You briefly wonder if Will himself is the carrot. Something to withhold when you misbehave. Some of the teachers enjoyed that method of discipline.

Will stays. He brings out one of the books from the shelf and starts reading silently. 

The sound of flipping pages is almost hypnotic. You feel your eyelids growing heavy. Will notices this and helps you get back under the cover, hands holding you tight.

He's so close to you. You can feel his heat over your own fevered breath.

You shouldn't feel safe. 

_And yet,_ you think as you drift into sleep. 

Mischa stays in her room.

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is sick because he pushed himself too hard while looking after Will's injury and arranging their escape to Argentina.
> 
> Salvia is a flower, the meaning of which is 'I think of you.'


End file.
